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GERACE ROSSO.
(November, 13, 1869.)
Three little bottles came by express;
Two were stolen,[1] so there were two less.
We drank the last one of of the three
In a merry, merry company.
Two for the pencil and one for the pen,
One for the nightingale's throat, and then
One who pours (as Jenkins says)
Her soul on the keys whene'er she plays,
What shall we say of the last? That she
Is just as good as she can be.
- ↑ Namely, by the expressmen, a catastrophe not uncommon in our corporation-ridden country.
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